


Stars on Skin

by art_of_a_diffrent_color



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Worship, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-12 04:30:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20159920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/art_of_a_diffrent_color/pseuds/art_of_a_diffrent_color
Summary: Of scars, stars, and sauntering vaguely downwards.





	Stars on Skin

If asked, crowley will say that he didn't so much as fall as saunter vaguely downwards. No actual rebelion on his part, just slowly drifting away from Heaven with each question untill the combined steps led to him tipping over the edge and landing in a pit of boiling sulphur. It didn't matter how you came to be in Hell, falling hurt and stripped you if the things (big and little) that made and marked you as a member of the host. 

For Crowley he lost his name, the white of his wings, his eyes - once a mass of swirling colors like a nebula - and his decorations. 

Why some angels have gold on their skin and others don't is just one of the many mysteries the Almighty is keeping to themself. Those who fell and had large swatches of it on their skin rapidly found them to be replaced with blisters and boiles, the gold flaking off to leave marred and sometimes oozing skin behind. 

Looking at the poc marks that dance across his vessels skin, Crowley reasons that he was lucky. Before his fateful swan dive into the pool of decay, tiny dots of gold had made themselves home in the same places as the scars. Some of the other Angels used to joke that if he ever ran out of ideas for the stars he only needed to look at his own face to find insperation again. 

Crowley had infact done just that once or twice. XX But with the fall they had flaked off like picked at scabs, trailing gold in his wake on his way down, down, down. 

It didn't change the pattern at all, just how it was presented. Crowley thinks God might have had some mercy left for him because he only receved scars. Or at least more mercy then was given to Beelzebub who's gold filigree had not only been stripped, but the after effects enlarged and prone to giving a greenish ooze every now and then.

"My dear, did you know you have constellations on your cheeks?" 

The familiar voice pulls Crowley from the depths of his mind, although the words are quite lost.

"Sorry what was that?"

"I asked if you knew your freckles were in the pattern of several constellations?" Aziraphale asks again, patient as ever and twice as kind.

"Er - Yeah, I did."

Crowley hopes that Aziraphale will drop the subject. It's not that Crowley minds the scars too much, but he can admit that he is a bit of a vain bastard and that part of him desperately misses the gold that used to be there. 

While the scars aren't bad, they aren't exactly freckles either. Not something that people tend to admire. 

The couch beside him sinks under the weight of a second person and a mannicured hand gently tilts the demons face up untill yellow eyes meet bright blue ones. 

"I think they are lovely my dear," 

There was a time when Crowley would have pulled back from the chaste press of lips against the bridge of his crooked nose. Not any more, and Crowley softens at the touch, pulling back only when Aziraphale does so he can look at the Angel. 

"It's like I have my own constellation, right here." 

"They don't shine anymore, not much to look at." Crowleys insists. It's half-hearted at best, and it's hard to feel bad about himself when Aziraphale is looking at him like that. 

"I disagree, I think I could trace them for hours." 

A gentle finger comes up, brushing over the spots on Crowley cheek. 

"A night sky, here on my couch." 

Crowley swallows and and shifts back, from the touch. Some namelsess emotion flashes across the Angels face for a brief moment before morphing into a soft look of awe as Crowley takes off his jacket and rolled up a sleeve. 

"Crowley?" 

The demon takes Aziraphale's hand and moves the fingers over a collection of the scars on his arm. 

"I used to use them for insperation some times. When I couldn't think of where to put them." 

Aziraphale can feel the hand guiding his begin to tremble for all that the voice it belongs to is steady. 

"The Greeks were fond of this one, called it Virgo." 

Slowly Aziraphale raises his other hand and takes the trembling one in his, feeling Crowley relax into him. The Angel spends a few more moments memorizing the swatch of skin with his fingers before moving to a different patch. 

The two sit as inch by inch of scarred skin is explored with soft fingers, the occasional kiss pressed to the sensitive skin. 

It's well past nightfall by the time Aziraphale looks down and sees Crowley fast asleep, his head pressed into the crook of the Angels neck. A constellation winding it's way down the pale skin on full display.


End file.
